


Run, That Ye May Obtain

by derryderrydown



Category: Chariots of Fire
Genre: Gen, Yuletide, challenge:Yuletide 2005, recipient:Tam Cranver
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-11-16
Updated: 2009-11-16
Packaged: 2017-10-03 01:06:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,472
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryderrydown/pseuds/derryderrydown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I need to race you. Again." His hand was on Liddell's arm, gripping too tight. "I <em>need</em> to race you."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run, That Ye May Obtain

Harold Abrahams stared out at the choppy, windblown sea. The lights of the cross-Channel steamer caught the blown spume, making it glow vividly for a fraction of a second before being lost again in the dusk. He could hear snatches of the celebrations inside - Lowe's strong voice, trained for law, was hard to miss and Lucy Morton was laughing loudly - but out here, on a bench tucked into a corner, he was alone.

 

Except for the two medals in his breast pocket.

 

He touched his pocket, making sure the weight was still there. Silver and gold and not enough.

 

And that was why he didn't know what to do.

 

He'd failed. Three events and only two medals. He should have been with Monty, drinking too much to dull the pain while Lindsay kept a careful eye on them and made sure they didn't do anything stupid. More stupid than usual, that was.

 

But one of only nine gold medals, compared to America's forty-five. It was cause to celebrate. Cause to be with Lowe, Mallin and Mitchell, talking and laughing and singing and being too loud.

 

Somebody cleared their throat, only a matter of feet to his right, and Abrahams instinctively leaned back into the shadows. A moment and then the man was just visible as he moved to lean on the railing. A brief flash of light was enough for Abrahams to recognise Liddell and be glad he couldn't be seen.

 

Liddell was smiling. Not as filled with life and fire and vibrancy and sheer _joie de vivre_ as when he ran but... Happy. And Abrahams envied him that.

 

He couldn't stand the silence any longer, so he shifted in place and Liddell whipped round, squinted into the darkness, and his face relaxed into greeting. "Mr Abrahams."

 

Abrahams nodded. "Mr Liddell. Congratulations."

 

"And to you!"

 

Without quite knowing why, Abrahams moved to stand next to Liddell, leaning against the railing and lifting his face to the spray. "I was looking forward to running against you in the hundred metres."

 

"Aye, well." Liddell's light seemed to dim for a moment. "It wasn't to be, it seems."

 

"There are other competitions to come." Abrahams looked out at the sea, not wanting to see Liddell's face. "We have plenty of time to see who's faster."

 

"I'm afraid not."

 

There was a gull hanging in the sky. The wind buffeted it but it stayed obstinately in place, a strangely bright spot in the dark. "Why's that?"

 

"I'm retiring. The Lord has other work for me now."

 

"_No!_" It took a moment for Abrahams to realise he'd spoken out loud, was facing Liddell. Was glaring at him. "I need to race you. Again." His hand was on Liddell's arm, gripping too tight. "I _need_ to race you."

 

And Liddell was staring at him. "Why?" he asked and his voice was soft enough to wound.

 

Abrahams frowned and tried to find the words. "I need to _win_. I." He shook his head, shaking away the words that weren't enough. "I need to run against you."

 

Liddell rested his hand on Abraham's and smiled. "It doesn't have to be a race, you know."

 

"It does." How could he say that he needed to _beat_ Liddell, needed to prove that he was fastest?

 

"Well, not an _official_ race." Liddell tilted his head and looked aft. "How long would you say this deck is? About a hundred metres or so?"

 

Abrahams stared along the deck, then back at Liddell. "Here?"

 

"Why not?"

 

"We're not dressed for it," was all Abrahams could find to say.

 

"I won't tell anybody about the social gaffe if you don't." Liddell leaned in closer and Abrahams could smell the soap on his skin. "Besides, I don't think the crew would like us using spikes on their deck." He spoke like it was a confidence, a secret between the two of them, and Abrahams felt the hair on the back of his neck rise.

 

"I'm not warmed up."

 

"Neither am I." Liddell shrugged. "At least it's fair. And we'll find out which of us is faster." A pause. "That's what you want, isn't it?"

 

Abrahams lifted his head and stared down the deck. The wood was damp, specked with seawater and rain. Out to sea, the seagull cried and Abrahams felt a slow smile spread across his face. "It's not about the rest of the world," he said. "It's just about us."

 

"Aye. Us."

 

They shared a look until Abrahams felt himself growing warm. He cleared his throat. "Racing to the rail?"

 

Liddell squinted down the deck. "That looks about right to me." He held out his hand and Abrahams shook it firmly. "May the best man win." When he dropped Abrahams' hand, he added, "And for this, the best man is the fastest man."

 

"The best man is always the fastest man."

 

Liddell looked at him as though he'd said something profound. "Do you think so?" he said thoughtfully. "I've always-" He let out a breath of laughter. "Och, never mind. When do we start?"

 

Abrahams pulled out his watch and moved the hands, before placing it on the bench. "It'll chime in a minute or so."

 

Liddell nodded and suddenly, that was it. It was a competition again and Liddell was the enemy.

 

Abrahams dropped into a crouch and started to do what warming up and stretching he'd have time for.

 

Behind him, Liddell glanced at the watch, then started settling into his starting position and Abrahams took that as his own cue.

 

The deck stretched ahead of him and suddenly it looked like a racetrack and not like a deck at all. He could ignore the movement and concentrate on Sam's voice in his head. Keep it light; remember the track's red-hot under your feet; don't over-stride.

 

Focus.

 

Focus.

 

He thought he heard the faint whirr of his watch preparing to strike.

 

Don't look at him.

 

And, almost lost among the noise of sea and ship and celebration, the silvery chime of the watch.

 

His rear foot slipped on the wet deck as he pushed off but he kept driving his lead knee forward and it was enough for him to recover and he mustn't look at Liddell because now he was settled into his stride and he was running.

 

It was an illusion but it felt like he was running faster than he had at the stadium, faster than he had in his life. Each stride came perfectly, precisely under his centre of gravity, landing lightly on the ball of his foot and it never felt this good, never.

 

He was flying, and it was just the sea beside him, adding its own movement, but he was flying and the seagull was before him, calling to him.

 

The railing was just ahead of him and he mustn't look; it didn't matter where Liddell was; he just had to reach the railing; it wasn't getting closer; there was someth-

 

The railing slammed into his belly and he doubled over it, wheezing for breath and staring into the frenzied churning of the wake. The seagull ducked low beneath him, touched the wake with its feet, then flapped its wings and soared away into the night.

 

Finally, he stood straight and looked back. A few yards behind him, Liddell was on the deck.

 

"I slipped," Liddell said, unnecessarily.

 

"Who was ahead?" He'd had to remind himself to ask. That was wrong.

 

"I don't know."

 

Abrahams started to lift his hand to chew at his thumb but aborted the gesture. "I thought I saw you. At the side but ahead of me."

 

Liddell's gaze met his. "I don't know," he repeated, and the full force of his honesty came through.

 

And - did it really matter? He had his gold; there were more golds to come. And there was always Liddell's times to beat, even if Liddell himself had retired. There was always the memory of running perfectly, of feeling the lift of heart that he'd never felt before. He reached his hand down and pulled Liddell to his feet. "Your trousers," he said.

 

Liddell glanced down at himself and laughed. "Aye. I think I should change. This deck's wet." He scuffed at it with his foot. "Slippy." He looked up at Abrahams. "Maybe we should have worn spikes."

 

Abrahams didn't quite laugh but his smile was almost there. "Maybe we should."

* * *

 

They were nearly at Liddell's cabin when Abrahams said, "Why do you run?"

 

Liddell's answer came quickly, as though he'd thought about it often. "God gave me this speed. When I use it, when I push myself to the very limits - I'm close to Him." He turned to look at Abrahams. "Why do you run, Harold?"

 

"To win." It wasn't the truth any more. Not entirely. But he nodded sharply and said it again. "To win."


End file.
